Valour and Vanity (37 page)

Denaro lowered a hunting rifle, then took up the oar again to help Spada drive them closer.

“Yes.” She had seen a receipt for this rifle when going through the library drawers and thought nothing of it. Yet another thing they had not planned for. “And they are gaining on us.”

“With a racing gondola and two oarsmen, that is not a surprise.”

In the boat behind them, Denaro took his hands off the oar long enough to load the hunting rifle again. Jane watched him so that the poet could concentrate on propelling the boat through the water. “He is aiming at us again.”

“We will not make it to the church.”

Another gunshot. Jane and Lord Byron both flinched. Surely they were far enough from the palazzo now. Vincent must be out. She glanced back as Denaro grabbed the oar again and they began to close the distance more quickly.

Jane replied, “If we turn down Canale di San Donato, then we can circle to our second escape route and abandon the gondola. The sisters are stationed there to wait for us. From there we can cross the Calle Angelo bridge and reach the church that way.”

Lord Byron looked back and cursed. The only thing in their favour was that Denaro kept having to stop rowing to reload the gun. Even so, it did not slow them much, given how much faster their the boat was than Jane and Byron’s. By now they had closed the distance to within twenty feet. If Denaro got the gun loaded again, it seemed likely that he would hit them.

He lifted the gun. Jane would have given almost anything for the sun to come out at that moment so she could use the
Verre Obscurcie.
She and Byron were all too visible, and trying to weave a
Sphère Obscurcie
at this speed would only result in the oiled light—

Which would serve well enough to obscure them.

Jane grabbed wildly for glamour, with no effort at artistry, only at scale, and let it dissolve into great oily swirls in the air. The glamour ripped and tore as she pulled it from the ether, shrouding them in coruscating rainbows. Denaro was close enough that she could hear him swear.

Lord Byron spared a glance back and gave her a savage smile. He crouched as low in the gondola as he could and still drive it forward. Sweating under her habit, Jane continued ripping glamour into shreds that filled the air between them and the other gondola.

A shot sounded. Chips of wood splintered off the cabin.

Lord Byron straightened and bent his back into the oar, counting under his breath. Jane frowned, wondering what he was counting, but that was all the attention she could spare him. Her arms burned from the masses of glamour she was throwing, but she dared not stop.

A pair of nuns stood in the street, conversing as if it was a normal afternoon. They looked down the street toward the palazzo in the direction that Jane
would
have been coming from if she had run out of the front door instead of the water entrance. The canal mouth was coming up on their right. Lord Byron showed no signs of turning.

“Do you see it?”

He nodded, panting like a glamourist now. “Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four—Can make tighter turns. Hoping they can’t—thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. Duck!”

Jane did, without questioning. As if he had been prompted, Denaro fired again. The glass window on the cabin shattered.

The nuns spun around at the gunshot. There was only a brief moment of hesitation before both nuns ran in different directions. One running along the canal beside them, the other up a side street.

At the last minute, Lord Byron cut his oar to the right, turning them into the side canal. For a brief moment, the buildings hid them from view of Spada’s craft. A set of landing steps came down to the water not far from the entrance to the canal. The nun ran toward the steps, waving them to her.

Water splashed up the steps as Lord Byron brought the boat against the landing too fast, and too hard. The wooden side smacked against the stone with a jarring thud that threw Jane forward. Sister Aquinata ran from a side street to join her sister, and the two women helped Jane out of the boat. The moment she was clear, Lord Byron cast off again. “I will try to draw them away.”

Jane did not have time for a thank-you. As she ran up the stairs to the street, the other gondola made the turn and coursed toward Byron’s. He had no speed, as he was still pushing off from the wall. Spada drove his boat straight into Lord Byron’s.

The poet dove into the water as the sharp prow slammed into his boat, splintering the side.

Jane ran.

Behind her, she heard shouting. Spada and Denaro had reached the landing stairs, and the sisters were trying every nonviolent means to slow them imaginable. She sent a silent prayer for their safety. If either nun were hurt because of her, it would be unbearable.

Then Sister Aquinata abandoned the nonviolent methods and produced a rolling pin from somewhere. She thwacked Denaro on his side, sending him tumbling down the stairs into the canal. Lord Byron swam toward the man.

Spada got past the other nun and reached the street. When they had planned this, Jane had not expected the need to work glamour on a moving gondola. The effort had left her winded even before running and now Spada gained on her steadily.

Panting, Jane reached the next intersection and a swirl of nuns flooded the street, each running in a different direction. Some stopped and ran the other way to create a mass of confusion. Jane blended into the chaos of black and white. She slowed to a walk and tried to calm her breath.

She glanced back. Spada fought his way through the nuns. When she reached the centre of the group, the Abbess spied Jane and fell in beside her. From behind them, Sister Aquinata shouted, “Hail Mary!”

At the signal, the nuns split into pairs, each of them walking briskly for a different door or street. From behind, they all looked the same. Jane and the Abbess headed for the bridge. As they walked, Jane pulled out the bag of
Verres.

The Abbess took the bag from her, sliding it under her robe. “Sir David and Signor Zancani are safely out of the palazzo.”

“Thank you.” The relief opened the knot in her throat, and Jane was able to take her first deep breath since leaving Vincent in the parlour. It was time for this charade to end. “As we had planned?”

The Abbess nodded. “We will see you at the warehouse.” She split her path from Jane’s and walked toward a church. It was not Santa Maria degli Angeli, but she would be safe there.

Jane did not pause, though. Her heart raced as she ran along the canal, as though she were still working glamour. That quick rhythm of her heart was familiar, but her legs were not used to the effort. Jane’s pace flagged. She was only a few streets away from the bridge over the canal.

Jane glanced over her shoulder. Spada had stopped one of the other nuns and, cursing, spun away from her. He saw Jane, recognised her, and gave chase. She ran for the bridge, drawing him away from the Abbess.

A wooden sawhorse was set across the base of the bridge with a sign in Venetian. Jane slipped past it and pounded up the steep incline of the bridge. She stopped abruptly at the top.

The centre span of the bridge was missing. Through the gap, she could see straight down to the canal underneath. Had she been able to read Venetian, the sign would have told her that the bridge was under construction. Jane stood in the middle of the lane that should have crossed the bridge. She could hear Vincent’s voice from the
Broken Bridge
shadow play:
This here don’t go nowhere but to the canal.

Turning, she faced Spada. He stalked up the bridge, carrying his cane. He gave no sign of needing it, but she was painfully aware that it contained a sword. His face was red with anger. “You have cost me a lot of money.”

“I find that complaint ironic.” Jane backed up, staying in the middle of the bridge, until she felt the edge. She held up the book. “Leave me alone, leave Vincent alone, and I will give this back to you.”

“It will take longer, but we can decipher your technique from the
Verres
we have and Bastone’s work with you.” He walked closer.

“Then why chase me?” The drop to the canal behind her looked very far. “Stay back.”

He unsheathed his sword. “I think you will find that it will be easier if you work with us.”

“Stop, or I will jump.” A threat that would be easier to make if she could swim. Jane held up the book. “And this goes with me.”

For a moment he paused, and considered her threat. Narrowing his eyes, Spada shook his head. “You are not serious. If you wanted to destroy it, your husband would have burned it in the fire.”

“My husband and I do not always agree.” She drew her arm back to throw the book to her right.

“No!” Spada lunged for her.

She threw the book and stepped back, over the broken end of the bridge. Spada’s hands closed over the spot where she had been, and the book dropped to the water below. A habit-clad body splashed into the water a moment later. The swindler dived from the bridge.

Jane, however, stood on a narrow board spanning the gap between the bridges. Sister Maria Agnes steadied her inside the giant
Sphère Obscurcie
that now covered them both. They watched as the life-size puppet Signor Zancani had made sank beneath the water, pulled down by the heavy cloth of the habit. The book floated on the water’s surface, pages spread. Spada ignored “Jane” and grabbed the book, swimming for the side of the canal.

He crawled out of the water and opened the book. The sound of his cursing echoed off the walls of the canal as the ink ran across the pages and bled onto his hands.

Twenty-five

Puppets, Nuns, and Lavender

Jane and Sister Maria Agnes were among the last of their party to arrive back at the nuns’ warehouse. When they stepped through into the echoing space, a cheer went up from the ladies assembled there.

Sister Aquinata hurried forward, wearing a smile that nearly hid her eyes. “We were starting to worry.”

“We had to wait for Spada to leave the street.” Sister Maria Agnes clapped her hands. “Oh! It was so exciting. You should have seen Lady Vincent facing him. She was so heroic!”

Blushing, Jane shook her head. “We could not have done any of this, were it not for you.” She looked past the nuns for Vincent, but did not see him immediately. She reminded herself that the Abbess had said that he was safely out of the palazzo. Lord Byron sat with a blanket draped around his shoulders, pulled up in front of a brazier. Beside him, Signor Zancani had a piece of steak over one eye, but grinned when he saw Jane. “The puppet worked?”

“Beautifully. And the blood bladders, too.”

“Come, come. I have some food for you.” Sister Aquinata handed them each a bowl of warm polenta and beckoned them forward. Jane took the bowl, but all she wanted was Vincent. The sister beamed. “We want to hear all about it.”

“Particularly since there were clearly parts of your plan that we were not privy to.” The Abbess looked up from the bench where she sat, with Vincent.

Jane’s husband had his shirt off, and the Abbess was tying a bandage around his left shoulder. He winced as she tightened the knot.

“Vincent!” Jane ran forward, alarm filling her throat.

“He is fine,” the nuns said, as if in a chorus.

“It is a scratch, Muse.” Vincent caught her hand and pulled her to sit beside him. Jane set the bowl of polenta on the ground, wanting to hold Vincent with both hands.

“I would say that it is a little more than a scratch,” the Abbess said dryly. “But, yes, it is just a flesh wound, not mortal. And, yes, he will be fine, so long as he keeps it clean.”

“I assumed the blood was from one of Signor Zancani’s bladders!”

From his seat by the fire, the puppet player said, “He was supposed to present his right shoulder, not his left.”

Vincent shrugged with the uninjured shoulder. “I was so startled that Spada had been feigning the limp even when we were not present that I turned the wrong way.”

“Which means…”—the Abbess glared at him—“that you knew you would be fighting Spada. I want to know what your plan was and why you did not tell us. No more delays.”

Vincent picked up his shirt and pulled it on over his head. “Well … Jane and I realized that the
Verre
from Signor Nenci would not help us, because of the want of sun.” He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulder as if to test it. He turned from the Abbess to Sister Aquinata. “You mentioned food? Is there some of your excellent bread?”

She nodded with a smile and pointed to a trestle table a little to the side. It had bread, cheese, and bowls of polenta, which some of the nuns were already enjoying. Vincent thanked her and strolled toward the food table. Jane could feel the Abbess’s impatience radiating from her. Casually, Vincent picked up a slice of bread and resumed his walk and his narrative. “Our problem was that the plan to disguise me with glamour was faulty because, as my wife correctly pointed out, I was not entirely well. At the same time, we were finding no simple way to go inside, so we decided to turn a fault into part of the plan.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently, my work habits are well-known.”

Lord Byron snorted.

Vincent glared at him, and the poet smiled mildly. Continuing his stroll, he walked round the nuns. “The idea was that I would enter, pretend to collapse, and use that to put them off their guard.”

“But why not tell us? I was worried sick. We all were.”

“Ah.” Tilting his head, Vincent looked away from the Abbess and frowned. “That is very simple to explain. We knew that there was an informant. We did not know who it was. In fact, we owe you an apology, because we also misled you on a prior occasion. At Signor Nenci’s we decided it would be best if I appeared in worse condition than I actually was.”

She looked aghast at the implication. “Surely you did not suspect us.”

Lord Byron raised his hand. “Actually, they thought it was me. Or my landlord’s wife—which, to be fair, it was.”

“Yes, and we were able to make good use of that to give them certain misinformation,” Jane added, watching Vincent carefully. “But they knew things that Marianna could not have known.” She expanded her vision to the second sight and looked where his gaze was fixed. Very faintly, if she pushed all view of the corporeal world from her sight, she could perceive the outline of a badly rendered
Sphère Obscurcie
.